My Side of the Mountain
by mythweaver1
Summary: FFIV. Seventeen years is a long time to contemplate one's existence. It's even longer when you have to spend it by yourself. A Kain story.


Dear diary,

It has been seven months now. I have killed 37 zombies, 48 ghosts, and am finally glad that Golbez sent Scarmiglione here instead of myself. My clothing will never smell the same after this….

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I have found that if I stare hard enough, it almost _seems _as though the doorway to this holy shrine exists. Sadly, this is only after I have gone mostly cross-eyed or have consumed a great deal of fermented berries. Perhaps they are poisonous?

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If the complete evacuation of my bodily fluids was any indication—yes. The berries were poisonous.

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Explain to me why this mountain is so stingy with redemption. You would think it would want to redeem more people. I haven't wanted to punch Cecil in the face for nine months now—that's progress, isn't it?

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…..a letter from Baron arrived today. It made beautiful colors the moment it burst into flames.

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I'm not sure why I'm even keeping you, given that Porom only thrust this book into my hands when I left and said "use this to keep a record". A record? A record of what—rocks I've counted? Zombies I've killed? This is ridiculous. I'm not writing in this anymore.

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I apparently grew more attached to writing in this than I realized. At least I can use it to keep track of time. It's been…another six months, now. No progress has been made with the shrine. No matter how I stare at it, beat on it, and curse at it, it mocks me.

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…..How are zombies _made? _

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My clothes have become tattered and useless. I show more skin than not these days… and have attempted to use local plant fibers as thread. The resulting seam rashes have led me to realize that, yes—these too were poisonous. They didn't teach us _anything _in field training…

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I have been on this mountain for two years now. I have come to the uneasy conclusion that until my spirit is "ready", I won't be able to make any progress with this confounded shrine. In the meantime, I have decided to pursue everything I never thought I would have time to do. …Like knit. Because these pants have become truly indecent.

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As it turns out, knitting requires wool. Where does wool come from again—sheep? Where does one find sheep….

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It has been another five months. I have bartered several precious stones for knitting needles and a small flock of sheep. The elderly ladies I procured these items from seemed more entertained by my appearance than my request. I suppose it's been a while since I've groomed myself…

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Sheep are surprisingly irritating. And they keep wandering off when I'm not looking. What do I need to do, attach bells to them?

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Today I brushed my hair. It took all day.

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Apparently, I know nothing about sheep. Or knitting for that matter. For the past two months, I have had no choice but to seek shelter with the foresters living near the mountain. The wise women clothed me and taught me a thing or two about my flock. If I stay here long enough, perhaps they will teach me to knit as well.

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Today I mended my pants. It was a good day.

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The most important thing I have learned about sheep: my dislike of them. The women of this village have had me working all hours, but they have promised me one thing at least—yarn.

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Seven months ago I learned to knit. Seven months from now, I may have something to show for it.

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I have left my sheep behind and returned to the mountain, but I did so wearing clothing. Also, I have observed that eight out of the ten plants I have encountered here are poisonous…does this mountain _breed _toxins?

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To date, I have killed 454 zombies and 480 ghosts. There must be an end to the number of corpses that can be re-animated…surely. Sooner or later, I'm going to have to decapitate someone I knew…

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After over four years, only now does it occur to me to actually settle _on _the mountain. Dammit, this means I'm going to have to climb back down, doesn't it…

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Chocobos do not make the best pack animals. I don't care _what _the natives say.

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The foundation has been laid. I probably should have planned this better. My lumber source is at the base of the mountain…my cottage is at the top. Yes, I definitely should have planned this better…

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It occurs to me now, that I don't have any nails. …I don't need nails….

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I need nails.

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It's only taken three months, but I finally have one wall constructed. It might have been more useful had I built it to block the wind. …Next wall.

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Today the twins visited….how on earth did—no, I've given up on figuring out how Cecil does most things. That man defies logic. So does this roof…

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A storm blew through last night. It took half of my cottage with it. I must start over now.

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Today marks year five on this confounded mountain. My cottage now has a chimney; thanks, in no small part, to the local people who I have bartered many knitted goods with. I have gotten quite good at this…

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I have not had much time to write recently, as I have finished building my cottage. Tomorrow I may even teach myself how to bake in the stone oven I constructed out of my fireplace.

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It is difficult to be self-sufficient on the mountain. Perhaps I should learn what manner of crops I can plant here that will survive in the soil…

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It's been eight months. I have given up on farming. I have, however, managed to grow an impressive crop of ghysahl greens. There are possibilities here…

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I have caught and tamed a wild chocobo. I have named him Fussbudget because it accurately describes him. I never said I was creative.

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The shrine still refuses to accept me. So I killed twelve zombies out of spite.

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Four months ago I made a journey to Mysidia for supplies, and returned with a number of books, charts, a chess board, and several sacks of flour. I think I have now learned everything there is to know about sewing.

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Six months have gone by. I should have become a tailor. Damn, I'm really good at this. Baking, however, eludes me. Nothing but burnt lumps for weeks…

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Another refusal by the shrine. How long has it been now? Six years? I'm surprised no one has come looking for me in a while…I'm not sure whether to be pleased or offended…

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It occurs to me that my hair reaches down to my ass. I have run out of creative ways to style it—perhaps I should cut it? But I admit that for some time, I have been trying to see how long I can grow it…I'm still curious, actually.

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I made a loaf of bread in _my _oven. Yes, it warranted an entry.

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I have accumulated more books from Mysidia—they now line an entire wall of my cottage. I have studied philosophy, poetry, arithmetic, geology, and botany. But none of these subjects can help me figure out one thing—why the shrine on this mountain is a bastard.

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I beat myself at chess again. I must be some sort of genius.

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I think my isolation from society is beginning to take its toll. I have named all of the rocks that surround my cottage. I like some of them more than others…

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To date I have killed 675 zombies and 712 ghosts. Really?

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Today I was convinced my beard was speaking to me. Then I realized it was only a screeching beetle that had made a nest there….I wasn't as bothered as I thought I might be.

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Correction—_nine _out of the ten plants on this mountain are poisonous.

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Today I took a sledgehammer to the front of the shrine. No effect.

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Eight years. This must be some sort of record.

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That awkward moment when you begin a conversation with someone as if they were an old friend, only to realize they're a zombie. Total count now 734.

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I'm not sure what manner of clarity this shrine requires to earn "redemption" and holiness. But I damn well might go insane long before that happens.

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I spoke to Fussbudget and I'm convinced he answered. I'm going to spend some time amongst people for a while.

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Nothing is quite so telling as when you bump into old companions and discover how very normal they are, or how very clean. The twins were trying not to make disgusted faces when they saw me…I bathed four months ago…I'm not sure I understand their reaction.

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As it turns out, if you stay away long enough—people forget you exist. Everyone _else _received holiday cards….I had to steal one from the Elder to learn anything about the rest of the world. How, for that matter, is that man still alive?

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Another nine months have passed. I have discovered how to create pigments. The mountain side has become quite colorful recently as a result. I may attempt an abstract painting next…

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My hair is now 3 feet 6 inches in length. It must be brushed at intervals…

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I have learned the constellations and can recite them all by name. This would be more interesting if I had someone to impress. This mountain is boring.

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I have been on this mountain for…at least eleven years. I think. Yesterday, after being forcibly yanked from atop Fussbudget by my hair wrapped around a branch, I decided it was time. I cut my hair. And I'm fairly certain I lost all my power by dong so. A shame…

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I have become quite proficient at shaving with a sharp rock. I only cut myself six times this attempt.

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I would go back to Baron…but then who would take care of my books?

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Dear Mountain,

Give me holy power. I will use it to kill all the zombies.

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People have begun to climb my mountain to pay homage to the shrine. I should start charging them a fee…

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If you squint at the shrine for long enough, sooner or later it starts to look like a face. See?

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Dear Mountain,

I give up. I surrender. You win. …..Wait, that _worked? _

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Dear Diary,

If my time here has taught me anything, it has taught me this—Lunarians are sadists. This will be my last entry…

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**A/N:**

**The idea for this was inspired by a certain song in a film "When Will My Life Begin?". I had wondered…what on earth…would Kain be doing for 17 years…ultimately, I decided he might go the way of Rapunzel, and then**_** that **_**song, and then **_**this **_**happened, and thus…..**

**Thanks for reading this absolutely bizarre little fic ;)**

**~Myth**


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